


Indebted

by Simara



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: Character Study, Childermass being the only decent human being in London TM, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Dubious Consent, M/M, Period Typical Attitudes, Plot With Porn, Unhealthy Relationships, give Christopher Drawlight a hug 2k19, sex for favours, so much hurt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-14
Updated: 2018-08-14
Packaged: 2019-06-18 23:28:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15497178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Simara/pseuds/Simara
Summary: Spring 1814: Drawlight's life among the London elite is a wellcrafted lie, a performance build upon favours and false promises. Childermass watches it all unravel as the curtain call approaches and cannot help but get caught up in the final act of this delightfull tragedy.





	Indebted

**Indebted**

_1814_

 

Christopher Drawlight was not a particularly well liked man. In fact, most of his so called dearest friends wouldn’t have hesitated to describe him in the crudest of terms once his back was turned. Drawlight was well aware of this, mind you, and did not deem much it much of an inconvenience. Better to be talked about then to be forgotten, better to be laughed at then ignored. He prided himself in his reputation. They might call him empty-headed, cruel and effeminate yet all of them had to acknowledge that he was just the person they needed for this task or that. Say you had a son who proved troublesome and dearly in need of a wife? Well, Mr  Drawlight would be happy to tell you that Mrs P-----‘s youngest daughter had quite the sum to her name and could be had in a month’s time if one was willing to ignore some minor rumours attached to her person.

One could say – and many did just that – that Mr Drawlight’s profession was gossip. This, I would argue, is not quite correct. Mr Drawlight’s profession, you see, was knowledge. Not the kind of knowledge that Mr Norrell strove for, oh no. Books and academic papers would rarely catch this young man’s attention. No, Mr Drawlight’s primary concern was knowledge of the human condition, of social structures and their dependence on one another. You do not climb as high as Mr Drawlight did without understanding what drives the people around you. Not many of his contemporaries acknowledged his ambitions and talents for what they were. His act was performed so beautifully that no one would have guessed that he hadn’t a penny to spare and was, it has to be said, quite thoroughly indebted. When he had first come to the city, a boy more then a man, he had brought nothing with him but a pretty face and his wits. Both have served him well since and even though he never acquired the fortune he’d dreamt of he had at least created the perfect illusion of it.

 

Why do I tell you all this, you wonder? Well, there was one man who had quite thoroughly seen through this well crafted façade and that man was John Childermass. He knew, for example, that Mr Drawlight was always on the brink of bankruptcy and that he had not a single drop of upper-class blood in his veins. This amused Childermass greatly whenever he watched the little man charm his way through London society but it would be grossly exaggerated to say that he cared much about the whole affair. As long as Drawlight was useful to his master and didn’t become all too bothersome he wouldn’t waste much thought on him – At least that’s what he was prone to think to himself with a shake of the head whenever he busied himself with pen and paper to avoid Drawlight’s chatter. Such indifference turned out to be impossible to uphold, however. What then could have driven these two closer together?

 

Well, it all started on a very charming day in spring. John Childermass was going through his accounts as Mr Norrell lectured Mr Strange and Christopher Drawlight just wouldn’t cease talking. The young gentleman moved quickly through the room, stopping only now and then to point out how well the flower arrangements looked. All the way he chatted idly, not much bothered by the fact that neither magician paid any attention to him. Childermass was watching him absentmindedly, for lack of better entertainment. It was warm, too warm for his taste, and he couldn’t help but let his thoughts stray a little. Just then, Drawlight brushed past his desk and leaned over it, asking something that Childermass didn’t quite catch.

“Beg your pardon”, he murmured half-heartedly. He caught sight of the bruises by coincidence: They adorned Drawlight’s skinny wrists like bracelets, showing clearly where fingers had ground into flesh. You could see them just there, showing where his sleeves had come a little undone from all his huffing and puffing around. It was a mere moment before Drawlight noticed that they were showing. He straightened his sleeves with an expression between anger and embarrassment and didn’t repeat his question.

 

This incident lead to two changes in their respective behaviour: Mr Drawlight began to keep his clothes in even neater order. Childermass, in turn, began to listen more carefully to what his fellow servants had to say about Drawlight and the gentlemen he spend his hours with. He wasn’t entirely sure why he cared. But care he did be it only because he disliked the rich abusing the power they held over those dependent on them. There was much idle gossip to be heard below-stairs when it came to Mr Drawlight. Most was frivolous and much exaggerated but now and then Childermass caught a grain of truth. For instance there was the tale that Mr S-----‘s valet spun when he visited his sister, a parlour maid at Hannover Square, just a few days after the incident we just described. The valet had overheard, quite accidently of course, a conversation between his master and the gentleman in question. Mr Drawlight had paid them a visit, you see, and the master hadn’t been happy. They had quarrelled quite noisily about some loan or another until finally Drawlight had managed to laugh it all off. His dear old father, Mr Drawlight had said, was having one of his tempers and, could you believe it, had cut his son’s allowance. This, while certainly inconvenient, shouldn’t cause Mr S----- any anxiety for Mr Drawlight knew quite well that the beloved old man would come around soon enough. If only Mr S----- could wait till then! What a burden would be off his chest if Mr S----- wouldn’t insist to be repaid quite yet! His loan had been so generous; surely he would be generous once more? So it went on for a long time, the valet said, and though his master had seemed angry still he’d relented at last. The two men had made for the office to settle their arrangement and when they returned halve an hour later their roles were quite reserved: Now it was his master who smiled, albeit grimly, and Mr Drawlight had acquired a somewhat less triumphant attitude.

“What business they must have had!” The valet exclaimed, laughing. “Mr Drawlight seemed to have been quite sore about the whole ordeal. Really, the master must have increased the interest on those loans by quite a sum.” Somehow, Childermass doubted that this was all. In fact – and some might blame his base heritage for such crude insights – he supposed to have quite figured out by now exactly how Christopher Drawlight got by when money ran low.  It was none of his business, of course, and he wouldn’t have looked further into the matter had not another incident occurred.

 

Months passed and summer came in all its oppressive might. The London air was thick and stale; quite unbreathable for anyone used to the sweet Yorkshire Dales. Yet Childermass was nothing if not stoic and he bore the city heat and all its stenches with a countenance of silent distaste. Norrell seemed to bear it much better. He had always suffered more under cold weather then under summer heat and since he hardly left his library he avoided most of the smells as well. Sir Walter, like most of the London elite, had already abandoned the city for the comforts of their country retreats. Christopher Drawlight alone remained of their illustrious circle for he could hardly afford the luxury of flight. He had an excuse or two to explain just why he was staying in London this summer and Childermass didn’t believe a single word of it.

 

It was on one such summer day that Christopher Drawlight came to dine with Mr Norrell. That in itself wasn’t too unusual, of course, and Childermass only rolled his eyes oh so very lightly when he helped his master’s guest back into his coat afterwards. He barely noticed Drawlight grow paler with every step towards the door and it took him by surprise when the young man staggered and fainted. Yes, he fainted, just like that. Childermass blinked and called for the footman to fetch some smelling salt. Together they managed to carry Drawlight to a settee and stir him back to consciousness. Drawlight’s long lashes fluttered. Childermass couldn’t help but acknowledge how unusually long they were. When the gentleman finally opened his eyes again, he seemed disorientated and much younger than usual.

“Mr Drawlight? Can you hear me?” Drawlight grimaced.

“Of course. Where am I?”

“You are still at Hannover Square, Sir. You fainted.” It has to be admitted that there was a dark sort of glee in those last words and we cannot blame Mr Drawlight for being unnerved by them. You too would feel uncomfortable at waking to the sight of a man like Childermass hovering over you, making snide remarks about how you ended up in quite that position. Mr Drawlight sat up quite abruptly. It made his head spin and judging by the way his gaze become unfocused, Childermass almost expected him to faint again. He didn’t, though. Instead, he made an attempt to laugh the matter off.

“Oh, I must admit I’m sensitive to heat. You should tell the maids to make better use of those fine French windows. No wonder if a gentleman feels faint in a room that hasn’t been aired out in ages.” Now, we have observed already that it was a hot summer indeed. Yet it has also been noted that this scene played out after dinner and I dare say that nightfall had cooled the rooms considerably. Why then was Mr Drawlight overcome in such a manner and why did he think it best to blame the weather? Those were the questions that seized Childermass’ curiosity. While he helped the gentleman back to his feet and shoed the footman away, he remarked, almost to himself:

“You barely ate anything.” He added: “Sir”, as if it were an afterthought and truth be told it was just that.  Mr Drawlight blushed quite fiercely.

“I’m not known to dine much.”

“You’re getting rather thin.” He didn’t even try to make it sound respectful this time. Drawlight shot Childermass a look, both alarmed and surprised, betraying that there was indeed something kept secret. He would never admit that, of course, so he replied, rather pointedly:

“You might not be aware but it is considered quite fashionable to wear a corset these days and you will admit that such accessories create an even slimmer shape.”

“Then you might want to _loosen_ your _corset_ from time to time, Sir, least it suffocates you one day. Good Night.” These last words were spoken as he closed the door in Drawlight’s face.

 

Childermass wasn’t much surprised that Drawlight apparently chose to spend his money on vain luxuries rather then on proper meals. What puzzled him, however, was that the young man didn’t make better use of the days he dined at someone else’s house. Was it as to not upset a starving stomach? Did he not want to get too used to proper meals? Or did something darker, more destructive lie beneath this air of indifference? Childermass had once known a woman, long before he entered Mr Norrell’s service, who seemed to live on gin alone.

“Why waste good money for food”, she’d said, stroking his yet stubble-less cheek with mock-affection, “if gin keeps me warmer and men like me better like this?” She’d been skinny and pale and covered in bruises and something about the way he remembered her was all too close to how Drawlight had looked for just a split-second that night.

  

A few months passed during which Childermass almost forgot to be weary of Christopher Drawlight. True, the young gentleman still called regularly at Hanover-square but his attitude was so chipper that even Childermass found himself swayed now and then. It was almost as though Drawlight tried to disarm Childermass by being his most charming self. 

"Oh you must try these sugar plums" he would say, lashes a fluttering. "I am sure Mr Norrell won’t mind your having a treat". Or: "Dear me, you do look very romantic today Mr Childermass!" Childermass let all these flatteries wash over him and declined both sugar plums and occasional invitations with a small smile and a quirked eyebrow.  

All this light banter took a turn for the serious as September drew to a close. The streets of London were once again populated by the rich and even richer. Mr Lascelles was visiting more often then even Mr Drawlight now, supposedly in an attempt to make up for the weeks spend at Leamington Spa.

Hannover-square was thus as busy as ever and Childermass hardly noticed when Mr Drawlight didn't visit for almost two weeks. He did notice however the discoloured, swollen bruise that adorned Drawlight’s eye when he _did_ call again. Mr Drawlight had done his utmost to drown the offending mark in all sorts of powders but all his efforts were in vain: The bruise could still be seen quite clearly. It might surprise you to hear that none of the other visitors, no not even Mr Norrell himself, did inquire after the injury. It just wouldn't have been proper, you understand, and gentlemen of leisure always prefer to invent the most outlandish stories rather then endure the truth. 

The only one among them who even alluded to the mark was Henry Lascelles and he did it in a low, cruel voice that was meant for Drawlight’s ears only. Childermass couldn't quite hear what was said but he saw Drawlight blush at the words and regard Lascelles with a rather nasty look. Later, when Childermass went outside to smoke his pipe in peace and escape the idle chatter of his master’s guests he chanced to meet Drawlight once more. He had, it seemed, only just finished a rather vivid conversation with the Earl of D----. At Childermass’ appearance, the Earl left with a short nod and Drawlight took an almost exhausted breath. 

"I’ve always supposed you to be quite heroic" Drawlight said as means of greeting. “and I now  find my opinions confirmed. You've just saved me from a most tedious argument."

"Getting into many arguments recently, are you now?" Childermass inquired as he lit his pipe, not nearly as uninterested in the answer as he pretended to be. Drawlight huffed half offended, half amused.

"Really, Mr Childermass, I had expected you to be above such pettiness. But of course", he added condescendingly, "I must not forget that yours was a very common education. I must not expect a man like your good self to act as a Gentleman would." Childermass gave a silent laugh. The words had been meant to cut but they were spoken in such an obvious attempt to copy Mr Henry Lascelles that they almost seemed like a parody of said gentleman. 

"You do not know me, Sir, but I know much about you, and you do not have much reason to talk down to me like this, all of a sudden." Something in Drawlight’s face turned cruel.

"Oh", he said, still forcibly upbeat, "but I am a known and well regarded gentleman whilst you are a servant with no manners and little training. Should Mr Norrell tire of you, you'd be hard pressed to find another house to take you in. You'd be out on the street once more and I dare say a fellow your age won’t get around by looks alone." Childermass had taken a step towards Drawlight, who'd recoiled instinctively. He hadn’t meant a single word he said and embarrassment and fear mingled in his eyes.

"We're not so different then, you and I. Your looks", Childermass did something quite uncommon for him: he touched the bruised part of Drawlight’s face in a motion both caress and threat. "Seem to be failing you more and more these days". Drawlight grimaced and withdrew but his eyes had lost all their remaining hardness. Something haunted had taken the place of anger and once again he looked dreadfully young; a boy who kept burning his fingers in desperate attempts to keep warm.

Afterwards, Childermass half expected Drawlight to report their meeting to Mr Norrell and demand to have Childermass punished for his insolence but Drawlight was no Mr Lascelles, try as he might, and not a single complaint was voiced. The rumour mill had it that either some spurned young lady who'd hoped to find an easy match in Drawlight had hit him with a slipper once she’d found herself rejected or that, alternatively, Mr R----- of Leicester Square had punched Drawlight in a drunk stupor during a party at the Duchess of G----'s house. Some attentive storytellers combined the two tales and maintained that Mr R----- attacked Mr Drawlight only because of his deep affection for the poor young Lady who had supposedly been played for a fool. Childermass didn't quite believe either version.

 

October came and went and Drawlight grew thinner, paler and more talk-active then ever. Childermass was pretty certain that Drawlight was all out of money for good by now. His wardrobe, while still impressive, didn’t change as frequently as it used to and one saw him, if invited, dine with an uncharacteristic appetite. Still, his face became smaller and his cheekbones more pronounced. It made his big, dark eyes stand out even more then usual. Now, John Childermass was not the sort of much dreaded servant who would listen at his master’s door and spread his secrets all over town. He was, however, the kind of man who would not turn his back should he happen to overhear an argument. So it happened that one day in autumn he found himself pausing outside the drawing-room door. It wasn’t quite closed and even if it were it wouldn’t have managed to contain the voices within: Mr Lascelles was in the habit of speaking loudly; a quirk all too common in those who are used to converse at parties.

“That’s quite the sum. You should repay him instantly if you have any intention to keep your good name.” Lascelles didn’t sound much concerned. His voice had a nasty quality to it, almost as if it gave him great pleasure to imagine the social downfall of his dear young friend. It has to be noted that Henry Lascelles was in a rather sour mood that day, ready and willing to prey on any chance that might restore his sense of superiority. Childermass couldn’t quite hear Mr Drawlight’s reply; only that it cumulated in a nervous little laugh. Chidermass stepped closer to the door. He could see the two gentlemen stand by the window, waiting – no doubt – for Mr Norrell to finish his meeting with Sir Walter. Drawlight touched Mr Lascelles arm with a smile and assured him that his debts seemed graver then they were.

“If only”, he said in a low voice. “I had a kind friend with a wide heart and the means to help me along until my banker discovers by what mistake my accounts have been disabled.” Lascelles gave a short, dry laugh.

“Oh yes. If only.” Drawlight’s fingers remained at Lascelles sleeve, caressing the ornaments patiently. He engaged an almost pouting expression as he explained:

“My dear Lascelles! After all that we achieved, yes, after all I did for you! Such good friends are we, surely you would not want me to-“ Lascelles cut him short. He had no patience for these games.

“Do you really think I’d pay for what I could have for free, if only I wanted to?” In a sudden fit of anger that had waited all day to be released he took a step towards Drawlight and grabbed his collar in a most un-gentlemanly fashion.

“Henry, please-“ Oh, but Mr Lascelles quite enjoyed the rush it gave him and he didn’t care for excuses.

“If I wanted to waste money on buggering a charity case I’d find myself a proper molly boy. Don’t insult me by pretending that you’re worth a single shilling. Do you understand?” Drawlight nodded hastily, smile still plastered across his trembling lips. “Now”, Lascelles said and patted Drawlight’s cheek. “Since we are, as you say, such good friends you might as well make yourself more agreeable.” He let go of Drawlight’s collar and gave a little push, meant to force the younger man to his knees. Drawlight hesitated.

“Surely you do not mean right here…” But Mr Lascelles knew quite well what he wanted and Drawlight’s refusal did not agree with him. He didn’t backhand Drawlight out of malice. It rather happened out of the honest conviction to have every right to backhand someone like Christopher Drawlight.

It was at this moment that Childermass decided to intervene and opened the door. Neither men saw him enter right away. Lascelles was too used to the silent buzz of almost invisible servants to notice and Drawlight was, I dare say, otherwise occupied: Lascelles had managed to coax him to his knees and was just about to make another clever remark when Childermass cleared his throat and spoke in a soft growl:

“Mr Norrell will be home shortly, gentlemen. Can I bring you any refreshments?” Lascelles gave a start and turned around with a scowl on his face. Drawlight only blinked. He hadn’t expected Lascelles to strike him and was still trying to grasp what had been about to happen.

“Get up”, Lascelles hissed through his teeth. Drawlight looked as though he couldn’t find the energy to obey. Lascelles’ eyes darted from Drawlight to Childermass. Then, scowling, he took a few striding steps towards the later.

“I’ve been waiting for an hour now”, his vice was icy, “and can’t afford to be late for my next appointment. Pay your master my compliments.” With that, he flicked one of his calling card at Childermass’ feet and left with more indignation then a man in his current position should be able to display.

“Silly me”, Drawlight said, accepting Childermass’ outstretched hand as he staggered to his feet, shaking all over. “I felt a little faint just there and had to rest for a moment. Good thing that dear Mr Lascelles was there...” Childermass gave a dismissive snort.

“No need for that”, he said almost gently. Drawlight let go of Childermass’ hands and both his voice and expression were transformed completely.

“It is not very proper to listen in on gentlemen conducting their private business.”

“I’ve got many virtues but being proper ain’t one of them.” That reply almost made Drawlight laugh.

“Of course not.” He paused. “Pray tell: How long have you been standing there and been improper?”

“Long enough.” Something in Drawlight’s posture shifted and when he turned to look at Childermass once more there was a sickly-sweet smile on his lips.

“I must say”, he moved closer to Childermass and gave a lingering look through his lashes. “That I am quite indebted to you. Surely you wouldn’t use what you heard against a silly boy like me? I would be most grateful if you could keep the secret of my little indiscretion…” Childermass sighted.

“I’m not going to report you. Either of you. That’s none of my business.” Relief washed over Drawlight’s haggard face. “You’ve already dug your own hole, no need to push you in any deeper.” Drawlight’s lips twitched.

“I’d prefer to call it a tunnel.”

“Whatever you please, Sir. Will you be waiting for Mr Norrell’s return?” Drawlight thought for a moment. Then:

“I think I will retire for today. Good evening, Childermass.” He was already through the door when Childermass called out after him.

“Lascelles”, he said, “won’t help to dig you out once your _tunnel_ has collapsed.” Drawlight wanted to reply that Lascelles really wasn’t that bad of a friend as long as he wasn’t in a bad temper but his cheek still stung so he merely tipped his hat and left.

 

By now Childermass had formed a rather well-rounded picture of how exactly Christopher Drawlight had managed to secure his place among the London elite. His theory went thus: Drawlight – probably coming from a lower middle-class family in one of the south-eastern counties if his accent, which sometimes slipped when honestly exited, was anything to go by – must have come to London a few years prior to Mr Norrell. He had, Childermass fancied, charmed a few gentlemen of high social standing who did not mind bestowing expensive gifts on a brash young thing like Drawlight. Thus having acquired both the financial and social means to pretend to be a wealthy gentleman, Drawlight had begun to borrow money here and there and to repay his debts by borrowing even more money from unsuspecting acquaintances. Drawlight, supposedly, had started to trade in favours and promises whenever there were no financial means of retribution. This must have been what let to the much rumoured about fight with Mr S----- after which Childermass had seen him so thoroughly bruised. The black eye he had received later that year could surely be explained by a less successful attempt to settle one debt or another. The fainting spells, though surely not completely unrelated to the current corset fashions, were likely related to hunger, just as Childermass had then suggested. The fight with Lascelles, finally, didn’t leave much to imagination. Childermass had long supposed that the friendship between Drawlight and Lascelles was both much more intimate and much less caring then they let on.

 

Now, one might suspect that after all these occurrences Childermass finally sought out Mr Drawlight to have a proper talk with him. It was not until early November, however, when the first snow had already fallen, that the two would once more exchange more then the usual niceties. Childermass was just coming back from an errant in the not-so-good part of town when he spotted Christopher Drawlight turning the corner. It was dark already and there weren’t many people about. The only other pedestrians were a group of men, dressed in plain workman’s clothes who, by the look of it, were just returning from the pub. Childermass had no intention to spy on Drawlight and was therefore about to hail a coach back to Hannover-square – but then he furrowed his brow and watched as the drunkards pointed and whispered and started to tail Drawlight down the alley. Childermass cursed under his breath and veiled himself in shadow. When he made it to the corner he could already hear their voices. _Molly_ , _fob_ and _bugger_ were the more courteous terms they used. Each slur was accompanied by a thudding noise and a pained gasp.

“We should slit ‘is throat”, announced one of them and gave another kick. “Suits ‘im well for coming ‘ere. Tis ain’t no place for swells and sodomites.” There was a sound that was almost a protest but it was cut short by yet another kick. Drawlight cried out this time, curling in on himself, and Childermass lost his patience. He grabbed the loudest of the lot by the neck.

“Now, Gentlemen”, he growled as he let the shadow fall away. “I would advise you to return to your respective homes and refrain from such attacks in the future. Mr Norrell, who is my master and – as you know – the greatest magician of our age, would surely hate to know how you have treated this dear friend of his. He has quite a temper, he has. Off you go now!” He shoved the man away from Drawlight’s writhing body. There was a moment’s hesitation and Childermass already feared that the alcohol would get the better of the man but then he finally staggered of and his friends followed suit, cursing him and all of English magic most obscenely.  Drawlight winced when Childermass crouched down at his side.

“You ought not to make a habit out of saving me, Mr Childermass.” He said hoarsely. Childermass ignored the half-hearted joke.

“Can you stand?”

“I will have to, if I don’t intend to stay here and freeze to death, won’t I?” It took quite some effort to get the young man back to his feet and Childermass ended up carrying most of his weight. Drawlight was panting.

“I’ll walk you home”, Childermass announced and silenced Drawlight’s upcoming protest immediately. “I know were you live. You’ve got nothing to hide from me. You should know that by now.” Drawlight maintained an almost sullen silence all the way to his lodgings. Only when they reached his front door did the familiar chatter start once more:

“I’m quite indebted to you, Mr Childermass, and I am glad to have such a caring friend. Do let me know if there is anything – _anything_ – I can do to repay you. But for now – Good night Sir and farewell!” He made an attempt to tip his hat and leave but Childermass would have none of that. He opened the door for Drawlight and nodded towards the stairs.  
“Up you go.” Drawlight hesitated for just a moment but that was more then enough time for Childermass to smile darkly and offer his assistance once more. Together they made it up to the little crammed room that Christopher Drawlight called home. Various articles of clothing lay neatly folded on chairs and tables; needles and threats could be seen scattered about the room. It looked more like a dressmaker’s workshop then a bedroom but it had a sense of dignity to it that most bachelors’ lodgings lacked. Drawlight’s jaw was oddly set as he watched Childermass inspect the place. Truth be told, he had never allowed another living soul to enter this room and it made him feel more vulnerable then even the beating he’d just received. There was no reproach in Childermass’ voice as he spoke, though, and Drawlight felt relieve wash over him as he realized that this man couldn’t care less about how pitiful Drawlight’s lodgings were.

“Will you be alreet?” Drawlight shrugged somewhat sheepishly.

“I’ve got a bottle of wine somewhere around here that should do for the pain.” Childermass shook his head.

“Let me have a look.”

 

Childermass had acted as Mr Norrell’s valet often enough to be quite skilled at undoing buttons and hooks so it took almost no time to help Drawlight out of his jacket and waistcoat. Only the corset that he wore above his shirtsleeves gave Childermass pause. Not merely because he had never before undone one of those on his own but also because parts of the boning had broken during the attack. When he had finally undone the stays and helped Drawlight out of his shirtsleeves and vest, he couldn’t help but inhale sharply.

“Is it that bad?” asked Drawlight, lightly, finally glancing down at his ribs. The flesh was badly bruised where the man had kicked him. Bits of the corset’s boning had shattered in a way that led it to pierce the skin deep enough to draw blood.

“Lay down.” Drawlight seemed taken aback.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Lay down. I’ll make sure there’s nothing broken, before I leave.” Drawlight complied, wincing. Childermass put his rough hands to Drawlight’s ribs and began to apply pressure. Nothing shifted and Drawlight only complained of moderate pain. “You’ve been lucky. They could’ve killed you out there.”

“My, are you always so gloomy? They would have grown tired eventually.” It was obvious that he didn’t believe his own words. Childermass couldn’t help but be annoyed by his attitude. “Oh, don’t you frown Mr Childermass, it is not vey becoming. What would you like me to say? That I am very thankful for you interference? Because I truly am! Don’t be so cross, dear Childermass. I can be a proper blockhead and-“

“What I _want_ is for you to stop lying through your teeth.” Said teeth clenched visibly at the suggestion.

“You take me for a liar?” Drawlight asked with a hint of hurt. Childermass smirked.

“Aye. I doubt you’ve ever said a true word to me or any other men in London. Don’t give me that look, there’s no need to take offence. Each man has his skill and yours isn’t truth-fullness.” Drawlight sat up with a pained wince and a forced smile.

“Pray tell, what are my strengths then?” Childermass glanced at him.

“A quick, pretty mouth and a lack of decency or pity.”

“Oh, so you _do_ think I’m pretty!” Drawlight exclaimed in mock-delight. “I knew you had a heart!”

“I’ve got eyes”, Childermass replied, half bemused, half annoyed. “My heart has nothing to do with it.” Drawlight leaned in closer, more sincere.

“If there is _anything_ I can give you to show my gratitude…” he repeated, more urgently – more _earnestly_ – then before and cautiously touched the other man’s arm. Childermass withdrew as though he’d been burned. He could see the disappointment in Drawlight’s eyes.

The mere thought of accepting such an offer gave him chills. Drawlight was little more then a boy compared to Childermass himself. Sure, his eyes had hardened since Childermass had seen him first but he had retained a certain youthfulness in his features that made it difficult to tell his age. He was much younger then Childermass, that much was for sure. In his mid-twenties, probably, that is to say: A good 10 years to young for a man like Childermass. A sight escaped him.

“You do not have to give me anything. In fact, I will not _accept_ anything like that from you. It would be rather cruel.” Drawlight seemed to gain some satisfaction from his concern.  

“Let’s call it a gift then, agreed? I’d love to give you a little gift and it would be very rude to refuse…” He leaned in before Childermass could protest and kissed him on the mouth. His lips were so soft and teasing that Childermass let out a growl of frustration. He turned his head away.

“You don’t know what you’re doing, boy.” Drawlight smiled an almost indecent smile.

“I’m not a boy, Mr Childermass, and there is no need to fret for my virtue.” 

“You’re hurt”, Childermass protested, growing less convinced as Drawlight touched his arm once more.

“Oh silly, don’t you worry about that. I’ve had so much worse.” It almost sounded as though he took pride in it. Childermass finally gave in. His mouth found Drawlight’s and he bit his lip just hard enough to sting. He immediately regretted that, though. Drawlight was so small and fragile and already bruised all over. Part of Childermass wanted to shut Drawlight up, to make him realize once and for all that those who play with fire will get burned. The other part however, the predominant part, despised that instinct. Yes, Drawlight could be irritating but Childermass was not a cruel man. His kiss softened and once they parted he made short work of Drawlight’s remaining clothes, careful not to rip the fabric. His own waistcoat and jacket followed suit. Drawlight reached for his shirt, but Childermass shook his head.

“Nasty scars.” He offered as matter of explanation. “I don’t want to frighten ya away.”

“I’m black and blue all over. Do you really think I’d mind your scars?”

“Trust me, luv, you would if you’d know what flogging scars look like.” Drawlight gave him a strange look. Then he laughed, openly and honestly.

“Oh do I get to call you pet names as well?” Childermass shrugged it off and stole another kiss. His hands explored Drawlight’s lithe body, careful not to touch the darker bruises. He felt himself grow hard. This circumstance did not escape Drawlight: He glanced up at Childermass and made a show out of wetting his lips before starting to undo the other man’s breeches. Bemused, Childermass touched Drawlight’s cheek. To his surprise, the younger man flinched at the touch and gave him a look that made him pause. Was it all an act after all? Had Drawlight merely lured him in? Or worse, was he taking advantage? Childermass caught Drawlight’s hands in his own. The young man seemed startled.

"Easy. Ya have nowt t'fear from me." He murmured, barely noticing how his accent slipped. Drawlight took a deep breath.

“I know. I’m sorry.” Childermass let go of his hands.

“There’s nowt to be sorry about, luv.” Drawlight bit his lip.   

“I _do_ want you.” He emphasised. “ _All_ of you. I’m just silly and jumpy and-” Drawlight was cut off by Childermass leaning forward, pushing him down ever so gently and planting a long kiss on his thigh. Drawlight gasped in surprise and arched his back. Childermass indulged him with a few more kisses, tender and slow, before putting his mouth to proper work. Drawlight made a delighted little noise and his fingers grabbed at the sheets as though he were drowning. It occurred to Childermass that Drawlight didn't seem to be used to be at the receiving end of such attentions. Childermass took his time and only stopped once he was quite certain that Drawlight wouldn't last much longer. 

"Now", he said wetting his lips. "Do you still want me to-"

"Yes", Drawlight said immediately, eyes filled with need. "Yes, please."

"Alreet." 

 

"There", he said and: "luv", and: "deary". "Alreet, alreet" was cooed between kisses and he could feel all the tension melt away under his touch. What passed between the two of them then is best left unspoken. Let it only be known that when it was over, Childermass drew Christopher Drawlight close and they lay for quite some time. Drawlight was the first to stir and, almost self-consciously, sat and turned his back towards Childermass. He hesitated and listened for a moment but when he thought Childermass thoroughly asleep, he got out of bed and began to reassemble his clothes. Childermass, very much awake indeed, watched for a moment with curiosity, before addressing Drawlight thus:

 “What, do you intend to slip away from your own bed?” Drawlight flinched and turned, shirtsleeves clutched to his naked chest.

“Dear me”, he exclaimed, taking a ragged breath. “I thought you to be quite asleep! I didn’t mean to wake you.” Childermass shook his head in mild bemusement.

“You did no such thing. Do you want me to leave?” Drawlight stood quite lost, fixing his big brown eyes on Childermass.

“I – Well, that is to say –“, he caught himself just in time and offered a smile. “I couldn’t possibly detain you any longer, could I now? I am sure Mr Norrell would be quite cross if you were nowhere to be found in the morrow. “ Childermass grinned.

“Liar.” Drawlight opened his mouth in protest but Childermass continued: “You still owe me a truth, Sir. What do you really want?” Drawlight looked away.

“To go back to bed and close my eyes and not to wake up alone.” Childermass nodded earnestly.

“That can be arranged. Come here.” He motioned for Drawlight to come closer.  “It’s not very spacious for two but it can’t be the first time it had to make do.”

Drawlight blushed fiercely and said, in a tone more earnest then ever:

"You do me an injustice in presuming– I mean to say I don't– I'm not– not as loose as you seem to think." He glanced directly at Childermass, cheeks flushed. "I may have taken advantage of some men's cravings but I am not _on the streets_. Indeed I dare say I'd have a steadier income that way but I'm not much inclined to end at the gallows. I do not take risks with man who haven’t made their inclinations clear." He gave Childermass an almost daring look. Yes, this insolent little man with his black curls, long lashes and full lips could have made quite a living at any molly house in town. Childermass smirked and changed the topic, beckoning Drawlight back to bed for good this time.

"My inclinations were clear, then?"

"Quite transparent, my dear Childermass! You have that daring look about you – No gentleman of steadfast morals could smile like you do."

“Come now”, Childermass said, barely concealing his smirk. “There are still some hours till dawn. More then enough time for make-believe.” Drawlight gave in and snuggled close to Childermass’ chest. He held his breath, at first, but soon he was swayed and fell fast asleep.

 

Morning came in all its cruelty and at last the men were forced to rise. Drawlight chatted eagerly as he was known to do when nervous. Childermass smiled and nodded and helped the young man back into the clothes he’d helped to undo not all too long ago. Only when the one-sided conversation broached the topic of one Mr Lascelles did Childermass give an almost exasperated sight and spoke his mind quite frankly:

“That man will be the end of you! He is false and pompous and cruel.” Drawlight gave him a funny look.

“Henry Lascelles is my _friend_ , Mr Childermass. I have grown quite used to that and wouldn’t want to break with him. He can be cruel and he can be hurtful but that is all the more reason to please him. You’d be wrong to assume that I’m blind to his faults. I see them quite clearly, I assure you. More clearly then most people, I presume, for I’ve seen him on his best _and_ worst behaviour. He can be quite sweet, you know, in his own way. You should see him after a glass or two, you’d be amazed. All fun and good spirits…” he sighted.

“I am amazed indeed”, Childermass said with a twisted smile, “that you should care enough about the man to defend him thus.”

“He _can_ be gentle and kind – but never tell him I said so or he’ll skin me alive!” He gave a laugh, somewhere between good-natured and nervous. Childermass shook his head.

“As you say, Sir.” He gave the younger man’s cravat a last, gentle tug, before bowing his head in a mockery of subservience. “Goodbye, Sir.” Their parting was quick and formal and after the door shut between them, Childermass shook his head in amused disbelieve while Christopher Drawlight felt quite thoroughly lost.

 

Don’t be deceived into thinking that this encounter might lead the two men to became more generally acquainted. If anything, they grew less familial in their conversation and only the keenest of observers could have spotted even that development. Thus, the days passed as though nothing had happened between them at all. Childermass watched as the friendship between Drawlight and Lascelles grew close once more. He listened as they whispered to one another and laughed about jokes only they understood. Now and then, Drawlight would look at him and smile in an almost shy fashion as though he feared reproach or ridicule. On one such occasion Childermass had the strangest notion, an image that flared up at the edge of his vision for just a split second, a mere shimmer of green. In the blink of an eye it was gone but it left in its wake the promise of magic to come. That evening, Childermass spread his cards of Marseille and asked them a question. Their answers seemed contradictory; spoke of ruin and death and rebirth. _La Roue de Fortune_ seemed to be turning onward and onward leaving nothing but dust while blind lady _Justice_ sat on her throne, right next to Monsieur _Mort_ who in turn seemed to grin knowingly at _La Monde_ and all that she promises.

Suffice it to say that it was no great surprise to John Childermass when young Mr Drawlight was arrested within a fortnight. The curious incidents that were to follow his incarceration, however, would have amazed even Childermass who’d once had them so neatly spread out before him. But that, reader, is a tale for a different time all together.

**Author's Note:**

> ... this took forever and I regret nothing --- except maybe my hideous slaughter of the Yorkshire dialect.  
>  This might turn into a series if people are at all interested. Feedback is greatly appreciated.


End file.
